


The Tunnels

by TornThorn



Series: You'll Find Me Elsewhere [1]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Based on the amazing comic and blog (ElsewhereUniversity) by charminglyantiquated on tumblr, But very low-key, Ceremonial self-mutilation as part of a spell, College, Conspiracy Theories, Cor is close to having a panic attack, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Fae & Fairies, It's gorgeous and clever and awesome!, Journalism, Self-Mutilation, Seriously - go check it out, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TornThorn/pseuds/TornThorn
Summary: In a school were the Fae share space, everyone knows not to go down into the Tunnels. But sometimes you end up trying to keep someone out of trouble, and instead get dragged along. That's how Cor found herself in these circumstances…





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Elsewhere University](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/266435) by charminglyantiquated. 



> So the idea of Elsewhere University is from charminglyantiquated on tumblr. There's a link to the original comic above this note, since I can't figure out how to get links to work in the note section.

The Tunnels were built back during the height of the Cold War. They wound beneath a good portion of campus and the football field. Most of the entrances had been blocked off, due to "safety concerns". The majority of students assumed that meant the Tunnels were not kept up and in danger of collapse.

But Cor had iron in both ears (to keep the whispers from overwhelming), and on her fingers (to keep her writing her own), and a small stud through her tongue (to allow her to speak the truth). Going into journalism, she always knew how perilous it could be. She simply assumed it would get bad once she went overseas to war zones, not while she worked on her major. (Nothing can prepare you for  _T_ _hem_  trying to distort your stories.)

She considered  _T_ _hem_  to be the greatest of contradictions. They had to live in truths, lies were against Their very nature, and They reveled in forcing humans to live by the same, and yet They hated that requirement of Their existence. They would twist and turn words, use them like weapons or spiderwebs, keep them just this side of truth while being utter falsehoods, everything the wrong way round. And the journalism majors… well, They would prefer the "speakers of truth" told it from a bent perspective.

That was not to say that Cor, or any of those who shared her major, were able to write completely unbiased. But Cor tried.

(It was why she had picked her second name. Cordelia, daughter of King Lear. When the king had been intent on dividing his kingdom, he had asked his daughters to prove who loved him best. Her sisters had flattered and lied and exaggerated, while Cordelia had spoken only the simple truth: "I love your majesty according to my bond; nor more nor less… You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I return those duties back as are right fit, obey you, love you, and most honor you." If Cor had remembered the consequences of that, instead of merely taking pride in the princess' honesty, perhaps things would have been different. Then again, perhaps not.)

And the Tunnels were fascinating.

The truth (because it is important) is that she did not plan to go. (You may not know exactly what there is Underhill, but you can guess. The quiet stories about the chemistry department stealing back a professor give everyone who hears them goosebumps. You  _do not_  go Underhill without a clear purpose, or at all if possible.)

It was another member of the department. A freshman (Isn't it always?) who had heard enough about the Tunnels to be curious, but not to be cautious. He was 18 years of age, and he went by the name Youngest. (The last kid in his family, he explained once. What Cor would find out later was that that also made him the fifth son of a fifth son, stretching back five generations. If she'd known then, she would have refused to go. He may have been born for quests and breaking curses, but she wasn't.)

He had been trying to study up on the history of the Tunnels and found the records in the campus library archives lacking. The Tunnels had been mentioned in the university paper when they were being voted on, and when they announced the construction start date.  There were no blueprints and no financial records. There were no minutes from the council meeting that decided to go forward with the building plans. There was no list of provisions to be kept in the tunnels, nor even a list of where to enter them.

And Youngest wouldn't accept that. Cor wasn't the first to try to talk him out of his obsession. (It didn't help that he was a low-key conspiracy theorist. And not in a useful, fairy tales and old stories way. No, he was all about secret government bunkers and drugs in the water supply and money being stolen from institutions like Elsewhere U for illegal testing facilities.) He refused to listen. He started asking indelicate questions of the librarians and the campus administration, and he apparently had enough luck on his side to keep him from asking just the wrong person.

In the end, the big break came from a boy he was dating, a theatre major. Prior had been drunk, the two had gone back to Youngest's room for the night, planning to fall into bed after a party and sleep off the booze. Youngest had brought it up, and Prior muttered something about an entrance in one of the costume closets at the main theatre on campus. When he woke up the next morning and realized what he'd said, he tried to take it back, to convince Youngest that he had been drunk and didn't know what he was saying.

Youngest didn't listen.

Youngest grabbed his phone for video and audio, and a pen and notepad in case something happened to his phone, and a flashlight and a bottle of water. He kissed Prior, was effusive in his thanks, and then walked away.

Prior panicked and called Cor.

And Cor, she was so damn tempted to let the stupid, oblivious moron just  _go_. Unfortunately, her conscience was apparently stronger than her sense of self preservation.

She caught Youngest as he was putting aside a pair of bolt cutters he'd grabbed from a props room, and pulling off the old iron padlock holding the small door shut. He pushed open the entrance as she grabbed his arm to yank him back, and in a rush they were both somewhere new.

Cor quickly stood and checked her fanny pack. (It looked stupid. Cor didn't care.) Creamer cups and seeds and campus-made oat bars soaked and crystalized in honey were held in a plastic ziplock baggie. Her little velvet drawbag of possibilities was next to it. Cor had collected the bits and bobs while scouring thrift shops and yard sales for unused baby shoes and abandoned love letters and half-finished quilts. (She cut them into small pieces, recognizing potential power, and kept them close.) Packets of salt and ground vervain tucked in another pocket. Then she shook her leg and heard the little jingle of her anklet. (It was silver, with four tiny shards of crystal, and it had been a gift to Cor's great great great grandmother from her sister. It was a promise, a last resort, a nuclear button. Cor didn't want to use it, because she knew the consequence. But if there was no other way…)

Then she took in the tunnel. It was dark before and dark behind, roughly hewn, strange shaped rocks pressed into dirt made up the surface, with two torches lit and glowing brightly on the wall to either side of them. If there had been a door, it wasn't there anymore.

And when Youngest finally pulled himself upright, staring around in disbelief, Cor gave up being nice and smacked him on the back of the head. "Why do freshmen  _never listen?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of the chemistry department revolt is borrowed from a post on tumblr by dragon-saint, and again referenced in "Feathers" by runwildwithme (being posted here on ao3). It was just too good a noodle incident to pass up on referencing.  
> The Tunnels are based on something that actually existed at my old school. And the entrances were behind a huge rock monument next to the football field, and through the biggest props room underneath the theatre stage. Yes, I went in them. Yes, I would swear they were liminal spaces. No, I didn't run into any of the Gentry, although it sure as hell felt like something was watching me.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how short this chapter is, but this story is going to be coming in bits and pieces as I figure out where in tarnation I'm steering this tale.

From his spot standing beside Cor on the hard-packed dirt floor, Youngest laughed. The bright sound was shocking in the heavy silence. "No wonder Prior knew about this place. The drama department must hang out down here all the time." He pointed to their source of light, wall sconces with heavy torches that burned a strange blue color. "Who else is crazy enough to leave an open flame like that?"

"Do me a favor and shut up," Cor snarled, squinting as she tried to make out anything beyond their five-foot bubble of light. "Look, these places run on rules, okay? What time would you say it was when we fell?"

At her angry tone and furtive glances, Youngest's eyebrows rose. "I dunno. A little after noon, maybe?" He reached for his phone. "It's only been a few minutes since you grabbed me." Pushing the center button on his cell, he frowned and muttered, "Okay, I _know_  I plugged this in before I sacked out last night, so why's it acting like the battery's dead?"

Cor, who had backed up until she felt her shoulder blades brush the wall, rolled her eyes. "It's not going to work 'til we get back Above. So how about you quit messing with it and focus," she suggested shortly. "We have no guarantee how long it's been. Time works differently here."

Shoving his phone in his pocket, Youngest asked, "Is that a physics joke?"

Still trying to see into the darkness in either direction, Cor twisted one of her iron rings. (Left middle finger. They were all polished until they shone, but this one was what she played with when her anxiety spiked. It was stamped with a trio of Elder Futhark runes, the main one _eihwaz_.) She shook her head. "Look, this is what it boils down to - if we don't make it back to campus by 3 AM, we're fucked."

Turning fully to face her, Youngest tiled his head. "3 AM?"

Shoulders slumping in exasperation, Cor held in a scream. "Where is your family even _from_?"

"Pittsburgh," he answered flatly.

"No, before that," she prodded. "Doesn't your family have stories that get passed down, generation to generation? Ghost stories, or ancestral tales or warnings?"

Youngest shook his head in confusion. "My grandpa set a barn on fire when he was a kid," he offered.

Tugging the ring nearly off before shoving it securely back on again, Cor considered praying for patience. She caught herself before she could so much as silently wish. (You never knew who might be listening, and eager to deal.) "My mom's side has stories going back to 13th century Wales, and my dad was descended from vikings, so their family epics reach even further through history. Which means I know a thing or two about the old ways."

At her pronouncement, Youngest threw up his hands. "So?"

"So 3 AM is the witching hour," she clarified. "A time of death and birth, when the veil is thin and magic is strongest."

"Magic," he repeated, deadpan. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Incredulous, Cor stared, before bursting out, "You got to a school  _infested_ with the Fair Folk!" She could hear her voice growing louder, could feel her gestures becoming wider, but couldn't seem to calm down. "Bojangles is right outside the campus library, busking half the week! How the hell could you possibly miss the thing with an alligator's head, skeletal hands, a brown suit that looks like it was made out of skin, and it plays nothing but  _In the Hall of the Mountain King_ , repeatedly, on an  _accordion?_ "

Lip curling up, Youngest scoffed. "That dude's a cosplayer, or something. A furry, maybe? Anyway, did you just say Fair Folk? Like… fairies?" He studied her like he was waiting for proof of insanity and leaned away. "Cor, fairies aren't real. They're stories, moral lessons wrapped in allegories to teach dumb kids right from wrong and not to follow strangers out of the grocery store."

Cor wrapped her arms tighter around herself at his dismissive words, and the condescending tone wasn't helping with the panic attack threatening to crush her lungs. "For the love of god, would you please  _shut the hell up_ before you get us both killed?"

Seeing her struggle to breathe, the way her chest rose and fell but Cor still couldn't seem to get enough air, Youngest held out his hands. "Okay, no need to freak. …fairies."

Shutting her eyes for half a second, she pulled her hands away from her body to run over her fanny pack again. Clicking the stud in her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Cor forced herself to ignore her fear and focus on anger. When her eyes darted back to Youngest, she glared. "The Fair Ones, the Good Neighbours, the Kindly Gentlefolk, or the Gentry, okay? Calling them something else will be perceived as a discourtesy or a challenge, and we're already up shit creak without a paddle. Let's not make it worse."

"Sure," he bit out. "The Gentry. Now, why do we have to get out of here by 3?"

Cor knew he wasn't taking her seriously, but she would gladly put up with his patronizing tone if they could just work together to make it out in time. Tapping her foot against the floor, both reassured and terrified of the jingling confirmation of her anklet, she explained. "If we're still Underhill at 3, we'll be bound here. For a year and a day. And considering we're mortals, the food situation, and the fact that you don't know a thing about the rules down here, I doubt we'd last a week. Even if we did…" She shook her head and bit her lip. "Say we survive that long, don't get tangled up in any oaths or power plays, find a trustworthy source of mortal food, make it back to the surface, we'd still come back  _changed_."

Taking in her grave expression, and the way her voice shook on the last word, Youngest blinked. Hushed, he said, "You're serious."

"And well versed," something spoke from their left, the remark tripping out in a sibilant hiss that echoed in the close space.

As Youngest spun to face it, Cor leaned her head back against the wall and whispered, "God _fucking_ dammit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has given this story kudos or commented! (I've got a weird anxiety thing about responding to comments, so I apologize for not thanking anyone individually.)


	3. Part Three

At first glance, the creature that emerged from the shadows seemed terrifyingly beautiful. Unusually tall and feminine in shape, with smooth skin the same bluish-black as a beetle’s carapace and a mass of tangled silver hair atop its head. It was also distinctly lacking in eyes.

Then it stepped fully into the light, and this time Youngest swallowed a scream.

It had a slim, humanoid body from the waist up, and from the hips down, it looked like it had been grafted to a gigantic spider, a huge, eight-legged mass, covered in rough, black hairs. And the two arms that emerged from the torso were both too long and ended in seven fingers with stingers in place of nails.

Cor felt something brush her cheeks like a web, and her tongue began to tingle, as though an electric current was radiating from the iron stud. Then the being asked, “And what Names do you wear, _schlammkinder_?”

Youngest’s mouth was open and he began to speak. “R-”

Clamping a hand over his mouth, Cor stifled his answer, pushing her rings hard against his skin. A dizzy look faded from his eyes and he caught her hand, squeezing it once in thanks before pulling it away. “I’m called Youngest, and she goes by Cor,” he nodded to her.

While she couldn’t be sure Youngest recognized how dangerous true names were, clearly the school’s warnings had made an impression.

On hearing the nicknames, the monster hissed them out, rolling the syllables across her pointed tongue. When neither human flinched, she pouted. “The meat is clever. More's the pity.”

“And you?” Cor raised a brow. “What shall we call you?”

After a moment, the fae shrugged, a motion that made her entire body shiver. It left the mortals queasy to watch. “Lotkin will work as well as any title.”

Still stunned, but starting to pull himself back together, Youngest licked his lips and whispered, “Are you _sure_ this is all Dungeons  & Dragons? That _that_ isn’t a product of some government experiment, or an alien, or something?”

He was grasping for an explanation he was willing to believe, and Cor bit her tongue rather than take the time to chew him out again. Instead, she brusquely replied, “Time to grow out of your paranoia, Youngest.”

Stepping closer to the spider-woman, Cor tilted up her chin and faced her squarely. “Will you bargain with us mortals? An honest answer for an honest answer?”

Lotkin considered the offer, head and torso swaying one way, and then the other. “We are agreed.”

Heart in her throat, Cor asked, “Can you show us the way back Above?”

“No.” Even expecting the answer, it still struck Cor like a fist to the stomach. When Lotkin continued, Cor fought not to cry, cold fingers shaking before she curled them into fists. “Mortals lost beneath the Hill cannot be shown the way. They must find it for themselves, stumbling about in the dark, or earn it.”

“Earn it?” Youngest repeated. “But what does that mean?”

Cor’s jaw clenched and her lungs felt tight when she bit out mockingly, “Feats of strength, heart, wisdom and valor.”

Lotkin’s response was a laugh, a hissing, clicking roll of sound nowhere near human in nature. “Yes. And as for my reward… What are your true Names?”

At that, Youngest flinched, only for Cor to smile. She knew the expression was bordering on cruel, focusing her panic into a sharp response. “I will not answer that. Ask another.”

Drawing up onto her back set of legs, the monstrous being towered over them in the close space. “An accord was struck!” she snarled.

“Yes,” Cor acknowledged. “And you failed to add a single qualifier. You were promised an honest answer, but there was no guarantee to which question it would be given.”

The fury on Lotkin’s features turned inward, recognizing the spoken truth. Scowling, she pulled back and declared, “What a tricky tongue you have. I do not think you will last long.”

Youngest leaned in and muttered, “Should you be pissing her off?”

“We need her to take us seriously, and beating them at their own game, even in a small way, will do that,” Cor replied. Straightening, she told the fae, “Ask again. You are owed an honest answer.”

After a full minute of consideration, Lotkin decided on her query. “Whom do you worship?”

Cor nearly scoffed. The being wanted to waste a question on religion? Then her mind went back to old stories of fae revels forced back Underhill by the sound of church bells, or the Shinto boy a dorm over who wore a string of jingling charms instead of iron, or the individual with gold lined eyes and an ankh tattoo. When dealing with the otherworldly, belief held power.

Taking Cor’s pause for confusion, Lotkin verbally prodded her for a response. “Do you address your prayers to one of the sun gods, or is there another being who holds power over you?”

Youngest sounded lost when he asked, “The sun gods?”

“The three-faced, called by four letters, and the lord of ninety-nine names. I have heard their influence has grown since last I was Above.” Lotkin swayed her head side-to-side like a snake as her attention switched between the two, waiting for recognition.

While Cor had no idea what the fae meant, Youngest nodded as though her answer had made sense. Cor caught his eye and mouthed, _Who?_

Youngest grinned broadly, pleased to know something his ally didn't, for once. “The _lord of ninety-nine names._ Traditionally, Allah has 99 beautiful names. And _called by four letters_ has got to be a reference to the Tetragrammaton, the Jewish synonym, sort of, for Yahweh. Which means the _three-faced god_ is probably the Christian Trinity.”

“Oh.” Cor noticed Lotkin was waiting on her, still and predatory. Pausing, Cor glanced downward and considered long and hard. _An honest answer_. “I don’t worship. Not the way you mean. For me, there’s no god or gods I pray to or have faith they can affect the outcome of my life.”

“Really?” Youngest asked, surprised. “You believe in fairy tales and myths, but not a higher power?”

Cor shook her head a little. “My dad’s one generation out from mixed Nordic ancestry. His mom raised him the way her parents taught her, with old school pagan superstition, things like the Dökkálfar and Ljósálfar.

“And Mom is Welsh, and that means nobody is very happy with organized religion. Family stories include the Kindly Folk and lingering spirits, though.” She held up her hand and showed him her rings, and the runes and symbols etched and pressed in them. “That's why, even if I don’t have the power of deity-based faith to combat the Gentry, I still have the knowledge of how to play by _their_ rules.”

“Huh,” was Youngest’s response. He offered her his background without prompting. “My mom’s Islamic, and my dad’s a hereditary Jew.” At that, Cor turned to him, well aware that bemusement was clear on her face.

“Yeah,” Youngest laughed. “You’re not the only one with an eclectic childhood. As for me, I practice when I’m at home, or on certain holidays, but I’m really a nondenominational agnostic.”

Cor remembered reading a study on how the younger age groups in the US were increasingly likely to identify as unaffiliated to any religion, and a widespread lack of trust in large organizations. Which was why, when Lotkin let out a frustrated huff and both humans jumped, having forgotten their threatening third, Cor breathed a sigh of relief. They had both shared too much, but it still wasn't enough for Lotkin to manipulate them. If the last time Lotkin interacted with lost mortals was in previous decades, or even centuries, the church you were a part of had been such a large piece of the individual identity. Now, at least for their age group, it was much less defining.

The pair of them gained no protection from religion, but bore no weakness either.

Clearly displeased with her second failing to gain any foothold on the mortals, Lotkin drew up again, shoulders wide and the whirlwind of shining hair brushing the tunnel roof. Her lips curled back, revealing multiple rows of jagged shark teeth, and her arms were spread, hands reaching for them, the stingers on her fingers glistening threateningly with some poison.

Cor froze, staring, and Youngest immediately caught her arm, scrambling away down the confined path, eyes forward toward the threat. Thoughts trembling in time with her body and attempting to catch up with their sudden danger as Lotkin loomed after them, cruel smile suggesting the monstrous being knew they lacked any escape, Cor tried to identify a deal or good reason for this creature to not make them her next meal.

She stumbled over something, and Youngest’s grip slid down to her wrist, trying to tug her behind him. It pushed against the thick bracelet on Cor’s wrist and she was struck by an idea.

With a deep breath, she pulled away and put herself squarely in front of Youngest, raising her chin.

Rearing back slightly at the sudden show of bravery, Lotkin froze long enough for Cor to speak, voice firm, faking confidence. “I would offer another trade!” And this one was going to take something of _value._ Youngest stood silently at her back, hands on her shoulders, prepared to jerk her away should things go bad again.

Lotkin snorted, shoulders rolling forward, mouth open in a sneer, yellowed teeth bared. “I have been tricked once. Why, then, should I trust you to honor your bargains again?”

After a moment trying to decide if pointing out that exact words hadn’t been cheating, Cor shrugged it off. “This would be a simple trade. An item of worth for your help,” Cor answered, trying to keep her hands steady as she dug into her fanny pack and pulled out an object wrapped tightly in cloth.

“What do you propose to trade?” the being asked, curiosity overcoming anger.

Cor untied the handkerchief, revealing a plain necklace. “A token of threefold shattered love, in exchange for introduction to someone who can help us find our way out."

That Cor had witnessed the circumstances of the jewelry breaking was luck. It wasn’t every day a stable triad relationship went to pieces in public, and lead to a symbol of a multi-part love being destroyed.

Cor had known a member of the trio. Ember was in one of Cor’s study groups, and they wore a necklace with a Celtic trinity knot, a gift from the other two, Matty and Bloom. They practiced polyfidelity. Or at least Ember and Matty did. Bloom, on the other hand, had gone off after a party one night with a gorgeous boy. (The fact that the boy had a hollow back and a fox’s tail wasn’t important, after it had been determined Bloom went along of her own free will.)

Why they’d chosen a public place for the confrontation, Cor would never guess. It was stupid to air that much emotion in public, especially when at least Ember knew with Whom the campus was shared. Matty had been loud and angry, Ember subdued and hurt, and Bloom oddly triumphant at watching the pair lose it. It was Bloom who saw Ember playing with the necklace and grabbed at it, and a link had snapped. Matty wrenched it back before tossing it aside and diving at Bloom. By then, someone had called an RA, who separated the two girls. Matty, cursing, stormed off one way. Bloom headed back for the dorm of the huldrekarl. And Ember stood there, looking like their entire world had just crashed, until a friend who had watched in horrified silence walked them away.

Knowing what it was worth, Cor hurried to grab the necklace as soon as the triad had cleared out. If one of the Gentry got their hands on it, it would be bad for all three. She cleaned it off and found Ember the next day, offering it back freely, said that surely someone on campus could fix the chain for a relatively small price.

Ember didn’t want it. Neither did Matty. Or Bloom. In fact, none of them wanted to see each other, or a symbol of what they’d had, ever again. With the denial it no longer held influence over them, while still having power in its own right by soaking up the good and bad of the relationship. So Cor kept it.

And now, she held out her hand to present it to Lotkin and watched that strange tongue flick out, like a snake tasting the air, before a grin swept across the alien face. “Yes, that will do.”

Scuttling past the pair, who pressed tightly against the wall to let the mass of legs scoot by, Lotkin ran a hand along the packed dirt, half-singing something neither human understood. At the strange tumble of sounds, a chunk of soil crumbled away, falling to the floor and revealing an orb the size of a cantaloupe, glowing an eerie, bioluminescent blue. Pulling the globe out, Lotkin reached for her lower back and tugged at a fold of skin. Out spooled several feet of a gossamer thin, rope-like substance the same color as her hair.

Cor was both horrified and fascinated, while a glance at Youngest revealed he seemed disgusted. Nudging his side, Cor gestured toward Lotkin and whispered, “Why do you look like you’re about to throw up?”

Youngest hunched inward, then mumbled, embarrassed, “Spiders don’t scare me, but I ran into a huge web when I was a kid. I breathed the fucking thing in and freaked out, thought I was gonna suffocate.”

Catching his hand in sympathy, Cor gave it a short, reassuring squeeze.

Weaving the strands into a few quick braids, Lotkin spun them around the globe until it hung, suspended from several lines, ending in a large loop which Lotkin slipped over one frightening hand. Holding it out into the darkened tunnel, it lit the gloom impossibly well.

Exchanging a wary look, Cor and Youngest followed the fae out of the illumination of the torches and into the shadowed passage.

* * *

At best guess, they had been traveling for maybe forty minutes. Youngest had barely lasted ten before the questions started, some inane, some clever, and some to which Cor had no answer. (If the Loch Ness monster or any other famous cryptids were from Underhill, it wasn’t exactly common knowledge.)

“Wait, is that why Teacup is always spilling salt everywhere?” Youngest demanded.

Cor tried not to judge. Nicknames could come in all shapes and sizes. Still… “Teacup?”

“My roommate,” Youngest explained. “I just thought he was messy, so I kept cleaning it up. Are you saying that keeps the fai-”

“ _The Gentry_ ,” Cor growled, glancing toward where Lotkin skittered ahead of them. As far as she could tell, the being wasn't listening to them. Still, if Youngest didn't get in the habit soon, it would cost them both.

Biting his lip, Youngest dipped his head, acknowledging the mistake. “Right, them. So the salt was to keep them out?”

Cor fought not to roll her eyes. “When we get out of here, you owe Teacup an apology.”

“Okay, so what about the jewelry everyone wears?” he asked next, automatically playing with the heavy links on his own wristband. Previously, he’d worn it as proof he was willing to go along with the traditions. Now, he was curious. “Is that a safety thing?”

Pressing the stud in her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Cor nodded. “It’s old lore. Iron repels them, and steel and silver can be used similarly, although to less effect.”

Youngest thought about that for a moment, then tilted his head. “But some people _don’t_ wear it. Do they just not know better?”

“Sure, some don’t,” she shrugged, stepping over a shallow hole in the floor.

“There’s a gal in my Ethics study group, Blondie-” Youngest started.

Cor cut him off with a snort. “Hair that’s more white than yellow and always falls perfectly? She wears that jean jacket with five million buttons and patches?”

“You know her?” Youngest asked.

Shaking her head and holding in a chuckle, Cor turned to catch his eye. “She’s a changeling. Iron wouldn’t protect her, it would make her sick.”

Youngest nearly tripped in his surprise. “Seriously?”

Raising an eyebrow, incredulous, Cor asked, “You never noticed that she’s got slit pupils?”

“I assumed they were contacts!” Youngest defended himself. “So what about Thermo? I play pickup rugby with him on weekends, and I’ve never seen him wear any metal _anything_. Is he a changeling too?”

“I don’t know him,” admitted Cor, then she considered the nickname. “But if he goes by Thermo... Is that short for something?”

“Thermodynamics,” Youngest admitted, nose wrinkled in humor.

“And is he a science major?”

Puzzled, Youngest replied, “Yeah? Chemical engineering, I think.”

Cor waved a hand at him, as though that explained it. “And that’s why.”

“Why what?”

“They leave the science departments alone.” She decided a more thorough explanation was probably necessary. “The Fair Folk don’t understand the field, in fact they are so thoroughly out of their depth that they view it like Greek Fire, an unstoppable weapon whose secrets are known only to those who create it. It’s similar to being that one kid on campus who’s too fucking big for the bullies to work up the courage to go after them, even if the kid’s never thrown a punch in their life.”

“Okay,” Youngest accepted that. “There’s a dude in my math class, goes by Latch Key…?”

He trailed off when Cor smiled slightly at the name. “I know him. He practices Haitian vodou.” Key was a sweet guy who was happy to explain the difference between his method of worship, and the horrible job Hollywood tended to do in portraying it. “He keeps a small drum in his backpack and wears a talisman with an etching of the symbol of the Marasa, the loa he appeals to for protection. Those are more effective for him, since they fit his beliefs and heritage.”

After a few seconds of walking in silence, Youngest perked up. “What about DJ Radio?”

At that, Cor scoffed. The kid in question was a loud, annoying freshman who had joined the journalism club in hopes of becoming the next Perez Hilton. “Now _he’s_ just a dumbass,” she admitted. “The paper editors and the faculty advisor have a pool going on how far into the semester it’ll be before he gets taken.”

Frowning, Youngest protested, “That’s an asshole thing to bet on.”

With a jaded laugh, Cor pointed out, “There’s actually a ton of betting on campus among the professors and seniors. It’s nice to be sure the most you might lose is a few bucks, instead of the ability to hear music, or 12 years of your life.”

“It’s still a jerk move,” Youngest muttered.

The questions stopped when they both noticed an increase in offshoot side paths and the tunnel becoming wider and higher. Ahead, there was a faint, discordant murmuring noise that grew louder with each step.

Lotkin stepped through a large archway, then moved to the side and waved them forward into an enormous cavern. Strangely smoldering stones embedded in the many walls and distant stone ceiling gave off an ambient light that revealed the crowds of swarming fae in all sizes and shapes. The creatures circled several long rows of booths, and the noise level was shocking compared to the inherent hush of the Tunnels.

Taking in their stunned expressions, Lotkin smugly announced, “Welcome, _schlammkinder_ , to the Market of the Goblins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, “schlammkinder” is not an actual German word. It’s a literal translation of “mudchildren”, which is not an actual English word. *jazz hands* Also, “the individual with gold lined eyes and an ankh tattoo” is borrowed from shinkei-shinto’s story Divine (posted on the Elsewhere University tumblr), which was brilliant. (I was unsure of gender identity for that character, so I went neutral.)  
> Additionally, Ember is mentioned in my other Elsewhere story, Scars and Memories.


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS HAVE CHANGED TO REFLECT TRIGGER WARNING.

“Am I hallucinating?” Youngest stuttered, staring around, eyes enormous with awe and disbelief.

Cor slowly shook her head, equally as stunned.

From where they stood at the entrance, slightly elevated above the main cavern, they could see a number of the closest stalls.

A gnome sat on a three-legged stool near the end of one aisle, in front of a wheelbarrow four times her size that overflowed with jewelry, gems and nuggets of precious metals. The loupe hanging from her neck was in hand, and she was using it to study a large stone, while a magpie sitting atop the glinting pile argued with the apparent customer, a tall, willow-thin dryad with ash white skin that curled here and there like the bark of a birch tree and curling ivy sprouted from the top of its head in place of hair.

The dryad was insisting whatever their bargain was to be a fair trade, while the magpie scoffed and called it a “lying pile of splinters”. The gnome ignored them both as she continued to examine the chunk of embedded amethyst.

Lotkin led them forward until they fell in with the large crowds. An otter darted past on Cor’s left, stopping at a table where it straightened and transformed into a masculine elf, a long, shining coat of brown pelt swinging around him. Behind the table, a nearly identical man took the pouch the former-otter handed over and spread the contents out on the tablecloth - additional herbs and plants to those already displayed.

There was a woman with opalescent scales and a bright green braid of hair weaving down from the base of her neck manning a booth. She wore a dress of flowing gold, and the stall was filled with bolts of fabric and long strips of ribbon and cloth decoration. All her wares caught the light in a way that left Cor dizzy and her eyes aching.

A creature with crackling black skin that looked half horse and put off an intense heat even from several feet away walked by. It was draped in a robe of a pale blue color that flickered and moved like fire, and a golem of stone and clay followed obediently behind, carrying a huge metal trunk locked tightly and covered in carved symbols.

Then the most enticing scent drifted through the air, abruptly covering up the odors of strange herbs and sweat and rock, and neither mortal realized they had stopped following their guide as they deviated from Lotkin’s path, heading farther in toward the center of the cavern.

They passed additional beings, beautiful and terrible to look at, some ignoring the humans in their midst, others watching them with curious or covetous expressions. Neither human paid them any attention, the smell overpowering their senses.

Ahead was a large booth, located almost smack dab in the middle of the yawning cave. It was square in shape and double the size of any other stall, open in the middle for the workers to stand and haggle from within. The counters were piled high with fresh produce, and Cor was drawn to a pyramid of plums, all almost identical and the deep purple of a bruise.

She breathed in and memories of summers at her grandparents’ house flitted to the front of her mind.

(Grandpa had always been working in the garden, or trimming the half dozen fruit trees scattered along the boundary of the backyard. Cor, her sisters, and her cousins would be dropped off early in the day and help, in exchange for treats of fresh-shelled sweetpeas and handfuls of the grapes that grew over the chainlink fence surrounding the property.

But Cor’s favorite had been the small, twisted plum tree by the old tool shed. The fruit had been a perfect size for her small hands, heavy and dull until it was rubbed against her pants to a gleaming shine. Inside the purple skin was the red meat that burst with dribbling sweetness. She would eat three or four plums at a time, then drop the hard pits in a heap beneath the trunk, pulling up the hem of her dirty shirt to clean her hands and face.)

The plums she stared at now smelled like her best memories of childhood, and Cor’s mouth watered with hunger and _want_.

As she fought not to reach out, barely remembering nothing was safe, from the corner of her eye she saw Youngest, handed extended. He was enthralled by a cluster of yellow fruit she didn’t recognize, soft and too oval to be pears. Shaking herself loose from her daze, Cor tripped forward, tangling their fingers together just before he brushed the fruit.

Youngest froze at the warmth of her touch and stared down at their clasped hands in confusion, before a mild shaking whispered out through his limbs. He reciprocated her hold securely and shoved his other hand deep in his jean pocket, swallowing hard.

Which was when Lotkin’s voice hissed from behind them, “Hawk your wares to someone else! These two are _mine_.”

They flinched to look over their shoulders, but Lotkin was focused on the stall. Turning back, Cor nearly squeaked in surprise as she finally saw who was running the booth.

Goblins. Six of them, darting through the empty center space. All of them were short enough to need step stools, which they moved and stood on to bargain with customers. They wore clothes pieced together out of bits of leather and cloth in a hundred shades of brown and green and gray, and their mottled skin nearly matched their outfits in tone. Sharp ears stuck out to either side of their heads, with wild white hair poking up from the skull, and huge eyes that caused them to seem innocent and childlike. They made Cor think of the puppet versions in the 80’s movie _The Labyrinth_.

The one closest to them, watching Cor and Youngest rather than Lotkin as it answered the spider-woman’s censure, smiled and its teeth reminded Cor of nothing so much as a piranha’s, craggy and designed for the ripping and tearing of flesh. “Surely,” it seemed amused, “they simply wanted a taste of our lovely market offerings.”

Whatever Lotkin shot back in response while towering over the counter wasn’t in English, but the tone was aggressive and mocking.

The goblin merely laughed, not at all intimidated, and while Lotkin hustled Cor and Youngest away it waved and called, “You should stop by again, once you’re free of your guard dog!”

Youngest’s hand tightened on Cor’s and he quietly asked, “If we’d eaten- what would’ve happened?”

Before Cor could remind him of her earlier warning about food, Lotkin let out a short sound of mocking disbelief. “Perhaps the _schlammkinder_ are not so clever after all. You would have become their eternal slaves, bound by their will and tied by an endless hunger for what you had consumed, always desperate and starving for another bite. You would do all manner of things for their foods.”

Youngest was pale when he bit out, “It’d turn us humans into produce-addicted _junkies_ for those creepy little-”

“Yes,” Cor broke in before he insulted the goblins. Lotkin could apparently get away with it. They probably couldn’t. She kept her voice down when she added, “Only the food’s draw is magical, so there’s no way to get clean.”

Both shaken, they followed Lotkin quietly toward the outer circle of vendors, passing a booth of instruments (lutes and panpipes and- was that a ukelele?) run by a Ziggy Stardust look-a-like who was talking with one of the fae Cor recognized from campus. (The Foxy Lady was distinctive, bright orange fur and a gown that fell around her like a waterfall of blood.)

Beyond the pair, there was a tinker, two arms busy with a hammer and a copper teapot, another two stoking a fire and feeding in pieces of coke to fuel the flames. The tinker had a line five beings deep, each holding this or that piece of brick-a-brack in need of mending.

Next to catch Cor’s notice was a cyclops, towering twelve feet high, his booth filled with strange metal sculptures of varying sizes. Cor blinked and stared when a timberwolf wound its way through the crowd and stopped before the giant, who greeted it in a boomed voice as an old friend. As though it sensed her attention, the timberwolf paused before swiveling its head, eyes landing unerringly on a gaping Cor.

When it winked at her, she quickly forced herself to look away ( _do not look back_ ), and focused on Lotkin instead of the mass of fae. She didn’t need or want any of these creatures interested in her. She just wanted to get back to campus.

As Lotkin came to an abrupt halt, Cor and Youngest nearly ran into her back legs before taking in the vendor to whom she had led them.

Near the back of the small patch of cave allotted for this merchant was a brief tent that looked like it would barely hold a single person. And someone wearing a Victorian riding dress with fabric patterned after what Cor guessed to be the surface of the moon, shifting shadows across pitted gray was ducked into the tent from the shoulders up. The watching trio could hear rummaging and muttered curses, as though they were failing to find something.

While they waited for their presence to be noticed, Cor glanced at the stall’s offered pieces and shuddered violently. They were renderings of the fae, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, paintings and tapestries and charcoal studies _reeking_ of obsession so complete as to be fatal. And all of the art had the subtle flaws that betrayed the creators as humans.

If any of the artist of the works on display still lived, Cor would eat her hat.

Quietly, Youngest murmured, “That tapestry is creeping me the hell out.”

Cor explained the common story in broad strokes. A gifted human stolen, utterly consumed by their infatuation that the extent that food and water and sleep were ignored, dying in their efforts to capture whatever they saw.

Youngest scooted further away from the long piece of fabric. “I’m pretty sure the thread for the hair is dyed with _blood_ ,” he squirmed.

The stall owner finally ducked back out, and they were faced with the same smooth brown skin, sharp cheekbones, huge liquid black eyes and wild crimson curls caught up in two high buns as on the tapestry.

The being’s focus went straight to them, and the hungry smile they were becoming familiar with on all sorts of faces stretched wide. Then she let her gaze tick over to Lotkin and scowled, eyes darting past them as though searching for a threat.

“Why, in the name of the Ancient One, are you here?” she sneered, furious and wary.

Lotkin’s sly smirk was the opposite of reassuring. Sweeping out one hand, she gestured to the cautious students, “I promised them a way out. And who better to give them a trustworthy guide than the Lady Redaast, the Summer Queen’s former cartogra-”

The move was so fast, Cor’s eyes didn’t catch it. But Lotkin laughter was shrill and genuine, while one of her hands curled tight around a slim, lengthy blade that should have punched through her torso. Clutching the hilt, teeth bared in a bloodthirsty grimace, Redaast snarled, “Call me by that title again and I will take your head, debt owed or not.”

Lotkin released the dueling sabre with an unconcerned push, and Redaast tucked the weapon back out of sight.

Turning to Cor and Youngest, still frozen from the attempted stabbing, Lotkin chuckled, her tongue flicking out to taste their fear. “I have fulfilled my bargain. _Her_ aid you must trade for yourselves.”

Cor wanted to protest, but recognized the futility. An introduction was all they had agreed on. Cor handed over the necklace, and Lotkin opened her mouth wide, curled the necklace into a spiral on her tongue, then swallowed.

Instinctively gagging as they saw Lotkin’s throat bob around the jewelry, Cor fought it down with several deep breaths. Youngest wasn’t so lucky, hunching over as he choked, coughed and spit out colorless bile. “I hate this place,” he whimpered, while Cor rubbed at his back.

By the time Youngest straightened, Redaast had blocked Lotkin’s path. The two were locked in a stare, Lotkin entertained and Redaast murderous.

“I was warned,” Redaast volleyed back. “It could be my life.”

Lotkin brushed her aside, carelessly replied, “ _Das geht mich nichts an_ *,” and continued away.

Redaast shoved the humans aside to yell, “The debt I owe is absolved!”

Scurrying through the crowd, Lotkin never twitched.

Finally noticing the spectacle she was making, Redaast clutched at her skirts for a moment, then forcefully straightened them before spinning to glare at the mortals, adrift in the hints of a story but missing the center.

“You had best offer something worth the chance of this costing me my life,” Redaast surmised before ushering them toward the tiny tent.

Youngest hesitated at the flaps and traded an apprehensive glance with Cor. Their new (at least temporarily) ally rolled her eyes and shoved them both through the opening and into-

Into a room far bigger than the tent should hold, with ceilings the cyclops outside could comfortably stand beneath, and floor space that had to cover a full twenty-five square feet. It was dark, with Redaast relighting slow burning candles, scattered through the room atop shelves and boxes. The walls were sturdy enough to have canvases stacked against them.

And the middle of the room was filled by a heavy table, black walnut at a glance, covered in decorative carvings that had a three foot tall lantern at one end. The remainder of the tabletop was covered by curling parchment, some tied closed, others held flat by polished stones or metal instruments. Stepping closer, Cor realized they were all maps, compass rose nestled in corners and titled at the top. something in the inherent magic allowing the strange characters to shimmer and resolve into the Latin alphabet. She recognized a number of the names.

 _Muspelheim_ , the Norse realm of fire and giants. _Avalon_ , where King Arthur was said to rest until Briton had need of him. _Themiscyra_ , the homeland of the legendary Amazons. _Dinas Affaraon_ , the City of High Powers in Cor’s grandmother’s tales, where the Pheryllt Druids had practiced metallurgy and alchemy.

Some of the places sounded familiar. Cor couldn’t remember any details, though. _Scholomance_ had a medieval-style horned devil dancing down the side. For _La Ciudad Blanca_ , all the buildings were bright white against a background of green and brown forests. A maze which had at least ten levels, each drawn on a layer of partially see-through bamboo paper, was marked with the name _Diyu_. Tucked in between what appeared to be swaths of mountains, _Shambhala_ was built on a series of terraces, with quick notes estimating heights. _Takama-ga-hara_ appeared to be some sort of island, with a bridge the only apparent entrance. The map for _Zerzura_ had dozens of tiny birds drawn here and there, and what looked like black giants guarding it.

Cor’s eyes caught on four maps that were rolled tightly closed with a seal of a harp and crown. And penned just beside the green wax were four words that left Cor stunned. _Gorias_ , _Finias_ , _Murias_ , and _Falias_. The four kingdoms, one for each cardinal direction, where the Tuatha Dê Danaan’s four treasures came from in the Mythological Cycle.

As Youngest gravitated toward a map that read _Elysian Fields_ , mouth gaping open, Cor scooted closer to the scrolls, and Redaast finally noticed their preoccupation.

Abandoning the remaining candles, Redaast stormed passed them, collecting the maps in a frantic whirlwind of motion and piling them inside a nearby chest. When the last of them was tossed in, she slammed the lid closed, then placed herself in front of the trunk, arms crossed defensively and scowling.

“Before we treat, you both will swear on your True Names never to share what you have seen within these walls, nor to call me-” she shuddered out the titles, “- _cartographer_ or _map maker_. If you will not swear, our association ends here and now.”

More aware of their ignorance than ever, because whatever the story was had to be monumental from the way the pair spoke of it, Youngest nudged Cor and raised an eyebrow. After a moment of consideration, Cor figured they had nothing to lose. (And the chance the sword would reappear if they refused seemed likely.)

“I, currently known as Cordelia, swear upon my True Name to refer to you as neither cartographer nor map maker, neither will I tell any what I have witnessed or will witness within this tent.”

Redaast nodded sharply, then looked to Youngest.

The man shrugged, “Yeah, uh, same.”

At two incredulous snorts, he hunched his shoulders and turned wide eyes on Cor. “Was I supposed to memorize that?” he asked incredulously.

Cor led him through the oath, replacing her school nickname with his, and finally Redaast was appeased.

Waving toward the table, Cor asked, “I assume you have a map so we can find our way out?”

Contemptuous, Redaast scoffed. “Every map I have ever created is designed for the buyer, and is made individually at the time of purchase. They are priceless. Yet payment must be made. What will you offer?”

Cor’s hand went to her fanny pack and she ran through the contents in her head. No matter what they could bring the price down to by arguing, this was going to cost more than a few of her possibility scraps. But offering something of personal value (a name, a favor, blood, hair) was ludicrously dangerous.

Wait. _Hair_.

Unzipping the largest pocket, Cor reached to the very back and extracted a clear sandwich bag that had two colors of locks twisted together and tied with a navy blue ribbon. The thin threads of dishwater blonde and curly, carrot orange strands were held together in a careful, four-part braid.

She hesitated, biting her lip nearly hard enough to bleed, then held it out.

Redaast contemplated the offering, and began chortling. Pointing from the black hair interrupted by a chunky purple streak on one mortal’s head, to the chocolate brown on the other’s, she grinned, wide and open-mouthed. “You would trade with another’s weakness? Do you despise them, these people whose lives you would swap for your own?”

Seeming to get the gist that Cor’s seemingly benign payment could end with whoever it came from hurt, Youngest repeated the question, his tone cautious. “Is this gonna put someone in danger, Cor?”

Forcing herself to ignore Youngest’s concern, she hissed back, “I said it once, I’ll say it again, if we can’t get back before 3, we’re fucked. I’d do a lot to get us the hell out of this mess, which is _your fault_ , by the way. You wanna put something on the table?”

Youngest flinched back from her vitriolic response, and he drew away from her. Only a foot or two, but it left Cor feeling shaky and chilled.

Still, her hands were steady when she held the hair out toward Redaast and said, “I will also give you two names. Not full names, and I'm not sure if they're True Names. Still, the names match the hair and will give you a starting point, should you wish to find them.”

Already reaching to take the bag, Redaast asked, “And in exchange?”

Yanking the payment away, Cor licked her lips and thought, before carefully pronouncing, “A trustworthy map, which shows us the five nearest and human-accessible exits that lead back Above to Elsewhere University. With a readable compass rose, and the cavern we are currently in clearly marked.”

She _thought_ she’d closed all loopholes but hoped anything she had missed or forgotten wouldn’t be dire.

Redaast extended her hand, “We are in accord.”

Cor shook her head. “The map first, then payment,” she insisted, tucking the bag in a jean pocket this time, decisively zipping closed her fanny pack.

The fae huffed, before walking over to what looked like a filing cabinet from the 1920s, light wood and glass, art deco handles. From it, she brought a piece of tanned ochre hide, a cotton drawstring bag, and a bejeweled linoleum knife whose blade was the length of her thumb.

Smoothing the leather out across the table, she collected and placed a number of the weighted stones atop to hold it open.

She waved them forward, until Redaast stood at the table’s head, and the humans were on one side.

Pouring a mix of ingredients ground to fine powder (the scents of chamomile, peppermint, hickory and dirt the most prominent to Cor’s nose) from the pouch, then spreading it across the hide until a thin layer covered most of the canvas, Redaast then twisted the knife so she held the blade and the handle pointed toward the pair.

“I need your heart’s blood. Prick your fingers  and allow the blood to fall at the center. And think of where you wish to go as you do so,” she explained at the way their eyes had landed, fearful, on the knife. Cor blinked in confusion.

Slowly, waiting for the trick, Youngest accepted the knife and pricked his left ring finger with the tip. Cupping his hand to keep the blood from spilling, Youngest passed Cor the knife.

Taking the knife in her dominant hand, (after a moment to work herself up to it) Cor went to cut her right ring finger, and Redaast clasped a cold grip on her wrist. “The heart’s vein is on the left hand.”

“Actually, that’s a myth,” Youngest started. “A misconception that the Romans-”

“It must be the left, or the enchantment will fail,” Redaast insisted.

Switching the knife to a clumsy hold in her right hand, Cor brought the metal to her skin, took a slow breath, then pressed down. When Redaast reached to take back the knife, Cor held on, wiping the blade along the leg of her jeans again and again, getting as much of their blood off as she could.

Checking the knife and seeing there was still a hint of dark red, Cor frowned and kept it in hand.

Seeing her reluctance to relinquish the knife, Redaast rolled her eyes and passed Youngest a strip of fabric. Clumsily, each keeping one hand held up to stop their blood from dripping everywhere, the pair of students worked together to clean the blade, with Cor tucking the cloth in a pocket before laying the knife on the tabletop.

“Visualize your goal and let your life’s water fall on the hide,” Redaast instructed.

Together, they tilted their hands and let the liquid dribble down. Rather than puddling, the dust absorbed the blood, the crimson bubbling out in lines like lightning strikes or the mycelium of fungi.

While Youngest pulled out two bandaids from his pocket (At Cor’s confusion, he shrugged. “Prior’s been helping out with sets lately and keeps hurting himself,” was the explanation.) to wrap their wounds, Redaast began whistling, volume and notes rising and falling. Pulling a larger knife from somewhere in her skirt, she unbuttoned and folded back a sleeve, revealing a terrible scar, the skin damaged in a manner that suggested it had been ripped open over and over again. A practice she demonstrated when she ran the weapon’s edge right down the rough tissue and let her own blood, a rusty orange in color, drown the powder.

The noise rose to a feverish pitch, full scales escaping in tandem, then cut off, the sudden silence heavy. Wrapping a worn cloth around her arm (which twitched and twisted, binding itself tightly over the gash all on its own), Redaast pulled in a lungful of air, then blew it out across the hide.

The particles poured off in a cloud, leaving Cor and Youngest backtracking to avoid inhaling anything.

When the dust settled, the hide was now covered in orange lines. Winding pathways through the cave system. And near the perimeter of the map, most just within the borders of the hide, were five bright red exits clearly marked.

Turning to collect an inkwell and a fountain pen, Redaast sketched a compass rose in a corner, then found a cavern near the far southern passages and in beautiful script wrote _Goblin Market_.

“Are you satisfied?” the fae asked. Cor carefully reached out, running her trembling fingers over the markings.

Rather than answer, she passed Redaast the hair. “Loraine and Richard,” she muttered, attention on the map as she rolled it up, tying it off with a piece of yarn dug out of her pocket and holding it tightly.

Redaast’s answering grin was nightmare-inducing. Smile turning down, Redaast’s earlier hostility reappeared. Enough that she took a step closer, sword hilt in hand, and snarled, “Get out.”

Youngest’s focus was still locked on the hair when Cor hurriedly obeyed the command, digging her nails into Youngest’s arm and steering him as far from Redaast as possible back through the tent flaps.

The noise of the market caused Youngest to swallow whatever he had opened his mouth to say, but his expression was troubled and stubborn.

“Trust me,” Cor whispered, tone equal parts desperation and demand, gaze darting back to the opening through which Redaast was soon bound to emerge.

Catching the look, Youngest sighed. “Later?” he asked, hushed.

“Later,” Cor promised. If Redaast had to learn of the truth in their trade, the student would prefer to be a ways away first.

Trying to get their bearings, the pair headed for the nearest wall of the cavern.

A will-o-the-wisp floated passed and Cor shivered at the touch, a barely-there brush of air that smelled like lichen and a sewer. Her eyes unconsciously followed the pale blue with its flickering center as it was shooed away from booth after booth, like a feral cat at a farmer’s market.

At one, where the seller ignored the will-o-the-wisp, Cor became momentarily fixated on the booth, which had a tree growing up out of the solid rock ground. At the end of each gnarled branch, a mask was suspended. All of them were smooth, black porcelain, vaguely shaped like a human face. And although they had a facsimile of mouth, nose and eyes, the indentations were closed - no holes to see or breathe or speak through.

A brown-and-grey horned owl the size of a grown man, with glowing eyes and curved black talons, was speaking to the proprietor, half-buffalo and half-human wearing only a pair of cut-off, green corduroy pants over scrawny legs, and suspenders holding the shorts up across huge, hairy shoulders. The owlman took down a mask and held it against its rounded face and beak. Despite a wild difference in shape and proportion, it fastened on with no apparent trouble.

Cor blinked, and the owlman was gone. In its place was a petite, redheaded girl, maybe 9-years-old, with a wide, innocent smile and constellations of freckles wearing a yellow-and-white sundress.

Cor shuddered and hurried to turn away before her staring was noticed.

Backs to the high cavern wall, Cor pulled back out and unrolled the map. The route to the nearest exit _looked_ straightforward, but without a compass, the little arrows indicating the cardinal directions would be useless. Even a lodestone would be better than nothing.

And finding either in the shops and stalls of the fae would be near impossible. No, they needed a human to bargain for a tool the Good Neighbors would perceive to be a weapon which meant…

“Fuck,” she muttered.

Youngest, who had fallen back on gazing in dazed disbelief at the crowd, turned quickly at the word, eyes darting, waiting for the latest danger to reveal itself.

In response, Cor shook her head and, from where they were tucked atop her messy hair, the girl pulled the cheap sunglasses she was rarely without down to hook over her ears and cover her eyes. Staring out into the crowd, she staggered, and only Youngest catching her elbow then sliding an arm around her waist kept the older student upright. (The frames were not to protect her corneas on bright days.)

She hated using the sunglasses. They would become a bullseye on her back as soon as the fae on campus worked out what the accessory meant.

Cor didn’t have the Sight, and most of the time she didn’t _want_ the Sight. Was it useful? Sure. Was it dangerous if the fae realized and liable to drive you insane anyway? Absolutely. At least this was temporary and conditional, she thought gratefully, scanning the surrounding booths. She did her best to ignore most of what she saw. (Although few beings wore glamours in the Underground, several were still hidden to mortal sight. Glimpsing them for mere moments, enormous in scale and impossible in existence and marvelous in the most disturbing way, left Cor swaying dizzily. And some of the wares available for sale…

She did her best not to think about the tree hung with masks, now revealed as flayed, gaping human faces, skin sagging without muscle or bone to give them definition, flesh edges ragged and eyelids and lips sewn shut with thick teal thread.)

Luckily, she spotted what she was searching for fairly quickly - an older man, with long, white hair braided down his back. His skin was tan, with russet undertones, and Cor guessed the man had Native American ancestry. A brown leather greatcoat with a stag’s head design burned onto the back was worn over jeans, a Led Zeppelin band tee, and a pair of extremely tired, cracking black Vans with neon pink shoelaces. He appeared to be in his mid-60s, yet still straight-backed and spry.

And despite the sunglasses, he appeared reassuringly human.

Quickly pulling off the frames and tucking them back up on her head, she kept her eyes closed for a count of ten, then tapped Youngest’s arm as she opened them again. “I’m good.”

Releasing her, Youngest stayed near and watched Cor until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “Okay. The hell’s with the glasses?”

“Do you know what the Sight is?” she asked, softly.

Youngest wrinkled his nose, thinking. “Isn’t that when redheads can see through magi-?” He stopped abruptly, peered around warily and whispered, “The drunk guy at a party who told me about it said the- the _stuff_ they saw would blind the folks who could See.”

“Luckily, I can’t. Except when I’m wearing these,” she pointed at the glasses. “There’s a girl on campus who makes them. Not a lot of people know about her, but some are just desperate to know what’s really there.”

She aimed herself in the direction of the man with the stag coat and made it five feet before realizing Youngest wasn’t at her back.

Turning, she found him still standing near the wall, mouth open in befuddlement and eyes on the ground.

Hurrying over, she demanded, “What?”

“I thought my RA was wearing fake glasses ‘cause he was a hipster!!” he squeaked.

Cor blinked. “You’re in Whitehall Dorm with Tingle? He was the first person to get a pair from Cats-Eye while she was experimenting. If you believe the rumors, he promised to type up every assignment she needed from the day he got them ‘til he graduated in exchange.”

When the newer student continued to stare at nothing, thinking back on all the “hipsters” he’d met, Cor rolled her eyes. “Time crunch, Youngest,” she snapped.

“Right,” he mumbled, then looked up and met her eyes. “ _Right_. What now?”

“Follow me?” she said, and this time she caught his hand and pulled him along, like safety buddies on a kindergarten field trip. There was a pause in the foot traffic, and Cor hurried forward. She nearly ran headlong into another goblin, who had a little cart full of shish kabobs piled with strange-colored chunks of meat. It held one out toward Cor, and she shook her head ‘no’, avoided its eye and hurried around the small figure.

It was as they passed a large, sturdy tri-fold display, every weapon imaginable hanging from hooks on the makeshift walls, that the stalls proprietor hailed them. Or rather, hailed Youngest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Translation: “That is no concern of mine.”  
> Cats-Eye was (I think) first created by runwildwithme for their story "Feathers". And the Foxy Lady was created (and illustrated) by the Queen of our court, charminglyantiquated.  
> And this chapter ended up way too long, so I've split it in half. Hopefully I'll finish the Goblin Market bits quicker than this last update took.


	5. Part Five

“You, male mortal, come here!” The words called out in a voice like rocks grinding together, caused the freshman to pause and stare.

An ancient dwarf, the hair of its beard appearing like steel wire with intricate braids and rune-covered beads twined here-and-there, skin a dull, wrinkled grey, hide pants, jacket and boots in black and heavily worn, was smoking a pipe and seated on a low stool. Dark brown eyes were fixed on Youngest from beneath a heavy pair of coal-colored eyebrows. “Aye, _you_ ,” it said around the pipe stem, carved into the tail of a wood dragon. “I’ve something for you,” came the sly words with a stream of smoke.

Youngest took a step toward the stall, while Cor dug her nails into his hand in silent warning. The boy moved closer still, but kept Cor tucked a little behind him protectively.

That brought an eyebrow up on the dwarf. “I could see it the moment I laid eyes on you. You’re meant for the hero gig.” Tilting its head, the dwarf squinted, then pulled out the pipe and leaned forward. “Fifth son of a fifth son, and you’re the fifth generation if I had to guess.” Taking a quick puff and blowing a self-satisfied circle of smoke at Youngest’s shocked expression, the dwarf winked, “Which I never do. As I said, I’ve got something for you.”

Cor began to protest, and the dwarf sighed. “It’s freely given, lass. A blade for your companion to carry on whatever quest led you down here.”

“ _Freely given_ ,” Youngest echoed, remembering the phrase.

“This is a bad idea,” Cor muttered.

“No, a weapon’s a _good_ idea,” Youngest shot back. “You convinced Lotkin to bring us here, but what if she hadn’t listened? What if she just attacked? A sword would’ve made a huge difference!”

“Do you even know how to use a sword?” demanded Cor.

Youngest indignantly started to reply, then snapped his mouth shut, fidgeted, huffed, then mumbled, “I’m the current runner up of the San Diego Comic Con lightsaber tournament,” while doing his best to avoid her gaze by staring down at his feet.

His words were met with dumbfounded silence. Finally, Cor stumbled out, “I don’t… I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Look,” he tried to defend his reasoning, “some of the people involved take it really fucking serious. Like, fencing lessons and strategy and holding mock battles as often as possible. And I made it all the way to runner up.”

“How?” she asked, morbidly curious.

“I went to a private school until halfway through fifth grade,” Youngest explained, cheeks still flushed with minor embarrassment. “You could take a regular old gym class, or you could join one of the teams. Baseball, gymnastics and fencing. I thought it’d be cool to mess around with sabres, so I spent five years learning the basics. Then my mom lost her job and we had to transfer to a public school. No fencing teams there, and all the gear was expensive as hell. So I bought a cheap, fake lightsaber at a garage sale and kept practicing what I knew. I’d watch movies and copy the fight scenes. I don’t even like Star Wars,” he admitted, “but it was the easiest way to stay in practice. And then last year a friend caught me, then he dragged me to Comic Con and entered me in the contest. I won $300 for coming in second place.”

Another pause, before Cor pointed out, “A _fake lightsaber_ and an _actual sword_ are not the same thing!”

Ignoring her, Youngest turned back to the dwarf. “Freely given?” he checked.

The dwarf acknowledged, “Aye. Blade, belt and sheath given with no expectation of any remuneration or favor owed. Yours for the taking, lad.”

Youngest nodded, before squeezing Cor’s hand and asking, “How do I-?”

With a roll of her eyes, already anticipating the moment this would come back to bite them in the ass, Cor pushed forward and pulled her fingers out of Youngest’s grip before offering a little bow and elbowing Youngest. “Your kindness is appreciated,” Cor spoke, doing her best to inject sincerity into the tone.

Youngest echoed the words and gesture, his timbre far more heartfelt.

Placing the pipe on a short chest beside him, which Cor could only assume was the equivalent of a cashbox, he reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt.

The weapon he drew back out shouldn’t have fit.

Barely two feet in length, perhaps a quarter of the sword was taken up by a minimal crossguard, hilt wrapped with twisted strips of a black hide, and a thick pommel carved to resemble a half arch. It was encased in a leather sheath, with tooled Norse knotwork all down the front. A loop at the top and another along the side connected to a belt, the same dull brown as the sheath.

Then the dwarf drew it out, holding it flat across weathered and scarred palms. The blade had a slight curve downward near the tip, and while one side had been honed to a deadly edge, the other was dull and at least 8mm thick.

Carved into the back was a long line of characters neither mortal recognized. The letters made Cor uneasy, but she couldn’t voice why.

Sliding the sword back into its case, the dwarf offered it to Youngest. “Freely given, thrice said and done.”

Youngest carefully took everything, this time offering a bow without prompting, then slung the belt around his waist, buckling it tight. The sword hung near his left hip, and he stood taller for the weight.

It was as his hand caught the hilt and tested how smooth the draw might be that there was an audible “ _pop!_ ”, which was accompanied by a building pressure against their ears before abruptly dissipating, causing the students to flinch.

Pushing the hilt back down, Youngest blinked dumbly at Cor, who glared at the sword before decisively turning toward the crowd, searching for the human they had previously been aiming to meet. Behind her, she heard Youngest wish the dwarf a good day before a now familiar hand slipped into hers.

Finally finding the man and keeping her eyes fixed on the human merchant, Cor hurried through the throng, determined not to be waylaid by any other mysterious fae.

At their approach, the man noticed them, turning to give the pair his full attention, dark eyes sliding from head to toe. Then he grinned widely, the teeth reassuringly normal.

“I haven’t seen mortals without a thrall on them in ages,” he laughed, the sound open and weirdly comforting. Sweeping into a courtly bow, he winked as he came back up. “This month, I am called Montolo. And I would be glad to trade for what you wish. Although…” he trailed off, expression thoughtful as he evaluated them again. “May I borrow your hand for a mere moment?” he asked Cor.

The rings on her fingers seemed to give a mild electrical buzz, but her palm was already pressed to the stranger’s by the time she felt the shock.

The man, however, was good as his word, releasing her quickly. Although there was a deliberate brush of his fingers over the iron before his touch was gone and Youngest had dragged Cor back to his side.

Montolo’s mouth dipped down, concerned and intrigued by whatever he had read at the contact. He spun and began digging through one of the many carpetbags slumped around his little patch of cave floor. His arm fit in the ugly, burnt orange holdall up to his shoulder, and when he tucked his head inside, muttering curses, the students pressed close together and waited in silence.

Eventually finding whatever he wanted, Cor and Youngest heard a pleased hum before Montolo popped back out, something clutched tightly in his grip.

He waved them toward a card table, one that looked like it had been bought for cheap and then dragged around by a family with five young kids for every meal. The only modification they could see was the long strip of metal, iron hammered flat and curled around the entire edge, with a line of salt glued just within.

With a flourish, Montolo placed the item dead center on the table.

It was a basic compass. One of the passing fae, an enormous, amorphous blob, a stained glass jellyfish made flesh with a beak on one side and dozens of blinking black eyes, floated passed, seemed to pause and shudder helplessly before glancing over and seeing the compass. With a sharp hiss, the regal, solemn movements were replaced by a flurry as it sped away.

Montolo noticed their attention on the thing and snorted. “It’s the magnetic resonance,” he offered far too easily. “Makes the bastards itch.”

At that, Cor moved a step farther back. Unless the sunglasses Cats-Eye had made were defective, Montolo wa just human. And for him to be Underhill and casually insult the fae was tantamount to a death wish.

Montolo seemed to have a inkling of her thoughts, when his grin grew and turned darkly pleased. “It’ll probably get me killed one day to call them what they are - sadistic, bloodthirsty mistakes of nature. But for now, I’ve got a patron who most of them wouldn’t dare insult. Now-” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together while his expression lightened. “-we haggle!”

Youngest glanced to Cor, who stared at the compass in thought. The thing would cost all of $10 at any Walmart in the U.S., but down here it was rare, valuable, and apparently made the fae uncomfortable by its very proximity.

 _Start low_ , she reminded herself. Unzipping her fanny pack, she pulled out a wedding invitation. (She’d scribbled over the first names of all participants.)

The couple in question hadn’t made it to the big day, one having an affair, and the other joining Doctors Without Borders and happily going to Central Africa when the truth came out. It was, for all intents and purposes, a broken promise.

Montolo drew a finger along the card, then shook his head. “Your rings,” was his counteroffer. “All of them.”

Cor had to fight not to recoil from the opening sally. Every piece of jewelry she wore was defensive, and the rings were personal - she had heated and stamped them herself with rune combinations she’d chosen. The only reason she didn’t fear the fae using them against her was the material, iron.

Montolo was human. Iron wouldn’t stop him from keeping the rings as spell components that could affect her.

She shook her head, then fumbled through her stash, pulling out a different piece of jewelry, someone’s promise ring. (It was inscribed with the phrase, “a virtuous woman is more precious than rubies”, and Cor had bought it off a freshman for a box of donuts after the girl’s first party, and subsequent debauchment.)

As before, Montolo poked at the item. This time he grinned. “These, and three of the rings you wear.”

Youngest watched, worried, as Cor ran her fingertips helplessly across the open zipper of the fanny pack, biting her lip. Then he watched as _something_ occurred to her, and she did her best to conceal the sudden relief, squaring her shoulders and staring at Montolo. “The invitation, the ring I offered, and two of the rings I wear, in exchange for the compass, a reliable watch, and a promise that you will use none of these items against me, now or in future.”

She offered her hand.

Head tilted, trying to understand her abrupt confidence, Montolo finally reached out to shake on the deal. “We’ve reached an accord,” he acknowledged.

Giving his word first, Montolo then passed Cor the compass and tugged a tiny locket that snapped open to reveal an analogue watch. She, in turn, put on the locket and handed the compass, along with a piece of string to Youngest with a warning glare.

Youngest quickly tied the compass tightly to the cord, knotted the ends, and looped it over his head. The simple tool felt heavy where it lied against his chest.

Handing over the two lesser items, Cor touched each ring, considering. (The left hand held heritage and dreams of success, all more intimate in nature. The right was defense and protection.)

Finally stopping over the top of two bands on her ring finger, she pulled it off. “A shield against betrayal and treachery,” she explained.

The trader took it carefully, as though it was made of solid gold, and slid it on to his pinky. He eyed the other rings, face alight with curiosity, eagerly waiting.

And Cor smirked. Unzipping her red hoodie, then pulling up the edge of her grey tank top, she revealed a pair of belly button piercings, both iron. One stud and one hoop.

Disengaging the hoop, she held it out to Montolo, triumphant.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the students simultaneously let out relieved puffs of breath when the man began laughing uproariously, like Cor had just told the best joke he’d ever heard.

It went on long enough Youngest was beginning to worry, when Montolo finally took a deep breathe and straightened from clutching his sides. A few more soft chuckles escaped, then he dipped his chin, acknowledging the hit with a rueful grin, “Well played. Reckless, but clever.” Taking the metal loop, as Cor adjusted her top and re-zipped the jacket, Montolo shrugged and tucked it away in a pocket. “I wish you well on your journey.”

Cor answered with a smile, before letting Youngest hustle them back through the crowds to their earlier spot along the wall.

Pulling the map back out, they both took the time to review their current position, and the possible routes out.

It was Youngest who tapped on an entrance attached to the Goblin Market, and followed the tunnels with his finger to the nearest exit. “This one’s probably our best bet.”

Checking the watch, Cor agreed, “We’ve got 13 hours and ten minutes.”

Orienting themselves, they followed the wall Northeast. They were almost to the tunnel when they were nearly stopped by a being with a boar’s head and three arms, hunched over in a long, pale blue robe. A booming voice announced an auction, like a salesman on a mattress commercial, or an old fashioned hawker outside a Victorian brothel. “-the very best, today only! It will be held beside the Bloodborne Brook!”

Darting around the fae, the pair rushed to the opening and hurried into the dark, Youngest switching on his flashlight.

Five steps in and the noise from the Market abruptly cut out, and their bodies both shook hard with momentary shivers as the temperature seemed to plummet. Spinning back, they found the tunnel blocked by a large, ornate door locked shut and decorated with an hourglass symbol.

Cor felt her hands go cold and knew her face was white. Numbly, expecting the worst, she popped open the locket and muttered, “Two hours.”

“What?” Youngest demanded, trying to rub warmth back into his arms.

Holding out the watch so he could read it, she shook her head. “We just lost two hours.”

“That’s-” Disbelieving, he could do nothing but weakly shake his head. “That’s _not fair_.”

Caught between resignation and fear, Cor simply sighed, “Yup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this finished for THREE MONTHS and kept making plans to give it a final review, but never managed to do more than poke at it. So, here it is. Sorry.


End file.
